Like a Mule Bringing Ice Cream to the Sun Read Online Free Page B

little old lady. When I get home, I punch in the code and push my way through the heavy front door, resting for a brief moment to catch my breath before climbing the stairs. There’s a box on my doorstep filled with bright yellow Meyer lemons. ‘Such a lovely man,’ I smile for I know who this is. My neighbour from downstairs is persistent; I must give him credit for that. But he’s a Republican and he owns a gun so he stands no chance with me. No chance. I balance the bread and the flowers on top of the box of lemons and then with my free hand I search for the keys in both pockets of my bra, only to find that the front door is already open. Forgetful me! I pick everything up, glance around to make sure nobody else is here, then carry the box to the kitchen table and select a lemon torub between my fingers. I love the fresh smell of citrus so I place some in my white fruit bowl and take them to the living room where I set them on a shelf.
    As you will see, I no longer organize my books alphabetically, or arrange them by colour of spine, which was what I used to do. Now the books are arranged according to which characters I believe ought to be talking to each other. That’s why Heart of Darkness is next to Le Regard du Roi, and Wide Sargasso Sea sits directly above Jane Eyre. The latter used to sit next to each other but then I thought it best to redress the old colonial imbalance and give Rhys the upper hand – upper shelf. I turn from my books for a moment, distracted by a noise, but it’s only the familiar thwack of tennis balls and the shudder of basketballs against backboards coming from the primary school across the street. Coming back to the bookshelf I pull out a book at random and a postcard falls out. It’s one of his, of course. Fulani woman with bronze earrings. I flip it over again and trace each crafted line with my forefinger, then bring it to my nose and smile. ‘Eu te amo. Antonio,’ he’d signed, with the arrow of the last ‘t’ pointing achingly off the page. I sigh, trying to remember what he looked like. I remember his eyes, which were light brown. And his hands, I remember those. I remember the first time he touched me, taking my hand under cover of dark. We sat in the cinema watching Lord only knows what, for his thumb was tracing circles in the centre of my palm and it took all my concentration to stop from moaning out loud. He was always so gentle, except when he wasn’t, which was sometimes even more thrilling. But it was his wordsabove all else that drew me to him and his love letters, brimming with tenderness and desire.
    I return to the kitchen and make myself some tea. Standing by the sink in tadasana, I gaze across the city, I think of Mrs Manstey in her solitary New York apartment. And then as the neighbour’s washing machine thumps to the end of a spin cycle, I hear the noise again; only this time the sound is unmistakable. I’m surprised at first, not in the noticing of it but in the wave of desire that grips my body as I put down my green Harrods mug and step quietly out of the kitchen into the living room. The whimpering has grown louder, as does the quickening thud that gives rhythm to the couple’s lovemaking in the apartment next door. I make my way to the couch where I lie on the futon, smiling as I sweep around my mind for a suitable person with whom to enjoy this unexpected surge of feeling. It’s Dawud that joins me first, smelling of falafel and lilac as we lie together, legs intertwined. I kick a cushion out of the way and then it’s the neighbour that takes Dawud’s place, his calloused hands gently cupping my breasts as he massages my nipples. But soon, inevitably, it’s Antonio whose fingers slip between my thighs, his breath tickling my neck. I close my eyes now as I whisper his name and then, letting go, I abandon him for the warmth that my touch has kindled. Only later, when I’m lying still, do I think again of Antonio and wish that he were here lying